


Designed Disaster

by snapbackbuddies



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: AWRBB2020, AndroidWhumpReverseBigBang2020, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Connor & Jeffrey Fowler Bonding, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Gen, Kidnapping, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Torture, Whump, he loses some body parts, hurt/some comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26149231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapbackbuddies/pseuds/snapbackbuddies
Summary: White steps closer and continues. "I have you and your friend Markus to thank for my escape, Connor, you know that?" he asks, smiling and seating himself gingerly on the small stool in their room. Fowler feels his lip curl and notices Connor's jaw clench, the only indication of any kind of emotional reaction to the statement. White raises his eyebrows and nods. "Yes, I do. A few newly freed androids decided to 'liberate' some employees at dear old Detroit Maximum Correctional Facility… prison guards. Imagine a high security prison with no guards. In the chaos, I escaped as well."In other words, Connor and Fowler are kidnapped as part of a revenge plot against Hank.With art by Nolfalvrel.
Relationships: Connor & Jeffrey Fowler, Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 22
Kudos: 153
Collections: Android Whump Reverse Big Bang





	Designed Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so so excited to be posting this for the Android Whump Reverse Big Bang!! my partner Nolfalvrel was an absolute delight, and their idea was a lot of fun to write. they created some GORGEOUS art, too!! NOW WITH ART EMBEDDED AT APPROPRIATE LOCATIONS!!!
> 
> heed the tags! connor is tortured and has body parts removed (including his eyes, though not explicitly written). body horror/torture only applies to android bodies.

At first, it's just a scream from the front of the precinct. A cry that Fowler typically wouldn't think too much of— sometimes family members and friends of victims learn the fate of their loved one out near reception. Grief does funny things to people, and it's not strictly unusual to hear an anguished noise from the front.

However, last week, Fowler received word that a few convicts escaped prison. A few particularly jaded convicts, seeking revenge on one Lieutenant in particular.

Fowler jerks up out of his chair.

Then it's followed by a gunshot.

He bursts out of his office. "Get down!" he bellows, towards Hank's desk in particular. Hank stares at him in bewilderment as he dives down, giving him an alarmed, "what the fuck is going on?" kind of look. Fowler sends him a panicked look and receives one in turn, and then Hank's head whips around to check on Connor, stood up from where he'd been perched on Hank's desk, eyes sharp as he watches the gates. Hank hisses something at Connor, but the kid doesn't pay him any mind, eyes still locked on the doorway, shoulders braced, one hand positioned carefully over his gun. He would've stayed that way, Fowler is sure, but Hank yanks hard on his shirt and shoves him down behind the desk.

Fowler races down the steps to his office, ducking behind Hank's desk as well, being the closest. "You know they're here for you, Hank," he mutters to him, daring a peak over the edge of the desk as the first intruders step into the bullpen. "It was White and his lackeys who escaped."

Hank curses but sighs, "I know. Fuck, I know."

"White?" Connor whispers.

"Higher-up of a drug ring. Put him away years ago."

"Then you stay here," Connor says, every inch as protective of Hank as Hank is of him. "They're here for revenge." Shots fire, and Chris cries out, but when Fowler looks sharply towards him, Tina has a steading hand on his arm and they're both ducked safely in cover. He itches at seeing his officers in danger.

"Connor's right." Fowler nods at him. "Stay low, Hank. I'll do my best to handle the situation. Connor, can you call—"

"I've already sent out a distress signal and alerted the necessary channels. I'm sure other androids have as well. Help is on its way."

"Good. Connor, you and I will do our best to take them down and protect our officers. Hank, you stay here. Understood?"

Hank growls, waffles, then seems to acquiesce. "Be careful," he hisses at Connor, clutching him by the shirt collar. Rough but affectionate, as he often is. "You hear me? Be safe."

Connor looks like he wants to argue. "I will."

Just at that moment, there's shouting and commotion by one of the newbies' desks— the new kid made a stupid stand, and one of the criminals is threatening her with a gun— and Connor is off like a shot. "Damn that fucking—!" Hank snarls, starting to stand out of cover before Fowler forces him back down with a hand on his shoulder.

"You stay hidden, remember?" he snaps. "Connor can take care of himself, and that newbie. Just trust him, dammit."

"I trust him to get himself into fuckin' trouble," Hank growls, though he settles back against his desk. "He wouldn't know what self-preservation was if I fucking smacked him with it. Bastard."

Fowler huffs. Connor is an android– he'll be fine pretty much no matter what, Hank doesn't have any reason to be concerned. "Relax." He glances over his shoulder for a moment. "I'm going to try and get some of us out the back door. Stay here."

Fowler slinks away and sneaks around as best he can. He manages to guide Ben, Chris, Tina, and two new officers out toward the back door, but when he comes back to try and sneak Reed and Miller out, he stutters to a stop. "Damn Anderson android," he hisses.

Connor's got himself backed up against Miller's fucking desk, hands not up in surrender but braced at his sides as if in preparation of whatever dumb shit he's planning next. There's two men with guns, one edging in on Connor's right side and the other just in front of him. He's either going to have to pull some stupid, dangerous stuff, or get his ass rescued. He's not visible from Hank's hiding spot, at the very least, so Fowler knows that Hank won't go throwing himself into danger while Fowler tries to take care of it. Fowler's just starting to creep forward, careful not to be seen, when the one at Connor's side takes out a small device.

The man presses the button of the device in his hand—an EMP—and Connor jolts like he's been shocked. His eyes roll and his head knocks back. He crumples to the floor like a puppet whose strings have been cut. A shock of red light blares at his temple, then dims out until the color is barely visible. Fowler curses. One press of a button, and the supposedly-superior bastard goes down— Fowler can't let Hank lose another son just like that. It nearly killed him the first time, and probably would have, if not for his son now. Despite being an intransigent, pain-in-his-ass lieutenant, Hank is one of his oldest friends, and Fowler doesn't want to watch him go through that kind of grief again. Besides, Connor's a good cop, and a good coworker— looks like a puppy-dog, running around, helping everyone he can with those big brown eyes of his. When he's not hunting down or interrogating a perp, that is.

Fowler creeps around the side of Hank's desk, ducking in cover as long as he can. When one of Connor's assailants turns his back to him, and the other is distracted with bending down to lift Connor, Fowler darts out of his cover toward them. He just manages to wrap a hand around Connor's bicep, gun aimed a the man holding the EMP device, when pain starbursts at the back of his head and everything goes dark.

/

Fowler is barely awake for a moment, head spinning, and already he recognizes that fuck, he's in a heap of fuckin' trouble.

He's handcuffed to some metal piping, a horizontal stretch of pipe about chest height with how he's sitting now. That and the length of chain on his cuffs do allow for some mobility. He's slumped on the floor of a room that's not particularly clean, and evidently not very lived-in. There are large, gaping holes in both the floor and the walls deeper into the room. It's windowless, with only one door. There's dust on nearly every surface, even the floor, except for some scuffles from when he was dragged in here. Dust is disturbed on the other side of the small room—a gutted boiler room, maybe?—as well.

Connor sits unconscious, or whatever the android equivalent is, across from him. Fowler stretches his aching legs out experimentally. His feet just barely reach the halfway point of the space between Connor and himself. The poor android looks like he'd be pretty uncomfortable, if he was awake. The vertical piping he's cuffed to keeps his wrists just above his head, so his arms hang to the left and his head lists to the right. His knees are folded up under him, chin sagged down to his chest. As it is, his LED just pulses a dim and uncycling red.

Their guns are obviously gone. His head aches, vision blurs– based on the hard hit to the head he barely remembers, it's at least a moderate concussion.

Fowler huffs in irritation. Fucking kidnapped. Likely by someone with a revenge plot, no less. The fact that it's Connor here with him and not Hank makes Fowler twitch— he has an idea of what that means, and it doesn't sit well with him.

Hopefully Connor can break out of the handcuffs. That android strength of his is about their only hope at the moment. Other than that, Fowler knows he can depend on Hank's wrath about his son being kidnapped and relentless determination to get him back. At least now Hank's willingness to break all the damn rules for his personal issues serves Fowler rather than just pissing him off.

The room is windowless, though, so Fowler doesn't have a clue how long they've been here or where they are. Worst case scenario, they could be hours away from Detroit. With that kind of distance, it could take… weeks to find them.

Or whatever's left of them.

Fowler grinds his teeth and shifts, chains rattling as he tries to get comfortable in this impossibly uncomfortable situation. Connor shifts and makes a crackly noise, drawn out like a groan. His breath shudders, and his eyes open slowly, staring at the floor with consternation. After a moment, he tries to move his hands, and his head whips up to stare at his handcuffs. "Fuck," he spits. Hank really is rubbing off on him.

"Yeah," Fowler says, and Connor flinches and snaps his head over to him, eyes wide. Fowler gives him an unimpressed look. Shouldn't an android detective be observant enough to notice another person in the same room as him? "What's going on with you?"

"Where are we?" Connor says, eyes still wide and voice frantic. He's shaking mildly.

"Good to know your GPS is offline," Fowler sighs. "I don't know. Do you remember getting kidnapped?" He asks dryly, and Connor's face tenses. "Seriously. What's going on? Did they do something to you?"

"I'm—" Connor scrambles at his handcuffs, tugging at the manacles restlessly. "I'm all out of order. Something is wrong with my programming."

Fowler watches Connor tremble in the corner, blinking rapidly and tugging hesitantly on his handcuffs. He's avoiding Fowler's eyes. Fowler doesn't understand what the android is even thinking— why he look so panicked, so fearful— he can't die, can't even feel pain. There's no reason to look so afraid. "Relax, Detective," he grumbles, fidgeting to get comfortable despite his bound wrists. "We'll be out of here soon enough. Won't be any trouble for you."

Connor snaps his eyes to him, breath thin and rapid. "I don't know, it might be trouble for me," he hisses, though it's not all that malicious. Fowler isn't certain the bot can do anything malicious, really— he's an effective cop, one of their most, though he's loathe to admit an android is actually outperforming his human detectives, just as predicted by Cyberlife bastards. Being such an efficient detective doesn't change the fact that deep down, Connor has a good heart. He's kind. He's not emotionless the way Fowler was taught that all androids are. "Seeing as they kidnapped me, and, and," he says, his voice skipping and stuttering oddly, "and gave me a– a virus, of some kind." He swallows and darts his gaze away from Fowler again. "I'm at 35% power. Half my thirium capacity. No hope of, of breaking out of here."

"Well, welcome to being human," Fowler grumbles. "I can't normally snap a metal bar, either." Connor seems frustrated with his comment but says nothing. He keeps blinking hard, shaking his head. Fowler wonders if androids can be concussed, too. "Besides, what do you mean by virus?"

Connor looks to him and blinks a few times. "Something's not right with my programming," he repeats. He blinks again. "It's… slower." He squirms, looking self-conscious, and crosses his arms over his chest. "I don't know."

Fowler squints at him but doesn't pester him anymore. He is looking a little uncomfortable, which Fowler isn't certain is even possible, but he won't bother Connor any more. Connor hesitates, opens his mouth, and then the door opens.

And son of a bitch, there he is. William Whitaker, known better as White. He was one of the most trusted higher-ups in a drug ring that Hank put away years ago, in the days of his Red Ice Task Force. Nearly twenty years ago, at this point, but Fowler doubts he busted out of prison just to tell them he's over it. From the look on Connor's face, he knows that too. "Shit," he says, under his breath, and with a curl of his lip, Fowler agrees.

"Good to meet you, boys," White says, folding his hands behind his back as two more men step in behind him, standing silently in the doorway. "Captain Fowler, been a while since I've seen you, though I don't believe we ever properly met," he says, smile falsely kind. "And you must be Connor." He looks towards him, though doesn't move. "Hank's son."

Connor works his hands in and out of fists. "Pleasure," he says testily. White laughs.

"Just like your old man." White glances over his shoulder. "C'mon, give him some thirium."

One of the two men behind him steps forward. When he turns to grab a bottle of blue blood, Fowler can see a long scar down the side of his jaw. He steps toward Connor, unscrews the lid, and tips the bottle forward into his mouth.

Connor accepts the thirium he's tilting into his mouth reluctantly, but apparently he needs it, so he doesn't have much of a choice. He swallows a few mouthfuls, blue blood dripping down one corner of his mouth, but then the scarred man takes a step back and waits, while White watches.

Connor swallows again, looking up at the humans before him with mild confusion, then spasms and stares with terror at the ground. He opens his mouth to speak. Instead, he stops short. A sound Fowler has never heard before leaks out of him, and all of a sudden Connor is lurching forward to spew blue blood over his shirt and the floor.

It looks… _painful_. Connor winces, his stomach and chest spasming so badly Fowler can see them jump. When he's finished retching, thirium dripping down his chin and shivering from the exertion, he croaks, "What did you do to me?"

"Installed a virus," White says casually. "If your thirium level rises over 50% capacity, your system will purge it."

Connor stares up at him, looking wretched and broken. He's gasping— Fowler is almost certain androids don't have to breathe, and the fact that Connor is raking in breath makes his skin crawl. "To keep you running at a low capacity. Power-saver, I believe. I did my research."

White steps closer and continues. "I have you and your friend Markus to thank for my escape, Connor, you know that?" he asks, smiling and seating himself gingerly on the small stool in their room. Fowler feels his lip curl and notices Connor's jaw clench, the only indication of any kind of emotional reaction to the statement. White raises his eyebrows and nods. "Yes, I do. A few newly freed androids decided to 'liberate' some employees at dear old Detroit Maximum Correctional Facility… prison guards. Imagine a high security prison with no guards. In the chaos, I escaped as well."

He examines Connor for a long, silent moment. Connor stares back. Fowler isn't sure if he looks defiant, angry, frightened, or some mix of all three.

White stands and makes his way to Connor, then crouches in front of him. He snatches Connor's face in his right hand, and Connor's facial expression doesn't change but his breath comes so loud and fast it's audible. "You see, Connor," White says, gripping Connor's jaw so tight the skin disappears and goes plastic white, "your father put me away fifteen damn years ago. And I just have to get back at him, see? Knew he had a son, so I started thinkin' up ways to get back at him…" He smiles. "No better way to hurt somebody than to hurt somebody they love." Fowler is gritting his teeth. "When I found out that his son is an android… well, just 'cos I had to think up new ways to torture you doesn't mean I can't still do it."

White turns his gaze casually to Fowler, face serene. "Did you know certain deviants can feel pain?" Connor flinches. White's smile broadens. "Oh, yes, I was surprised, too. But they can. Something in each individual's code. It can be prompted to… mutate, so to speak. Connor's code just needed a little push."

Connor grunts, jaw still held tight, and exhales sharply through his nose as Fowler watches blood begin to bead up at the faults of his facial plating, where White's fingers dig in and pry. After a moment of his throat bobbing, chest jerking, Connor can't seem to control his cry. His hands jerk down harshly in their cuffs. The clank of metal on metal echoes jarringly around the room.

Fowler is wide-eyed, stupefied. Connor is in _pain_. The only noise in the room is his artificial, authentic, terrified panting.

White admires the blue blood leaking onto his fingers, staining his nails vividly. "Fascinating, isn't it? How such a small amount of pressure can make the facial plates cave and break." He looks over his shoulder at Fowler. "The RK800 is just a prototype–– not built to last. Been four months since this particular model was sent out of the factory… how long were you built to last, Connor? Refresh my memory."

Connor swallows harshly, face twisting in White's hand. There's tears gathering in his eyes and more blood welling up around where the fingers dig into his face, nails slipping deeper into the gap between his facial plating. "Three months," he says, voice muddled.

Three fucking months? Fowler feels his heart clench. He'd always assumed androids would outlive just about anyone. He stares at Connor in disbelief, and Connor stares back with eyes squinted in pain.

"Three months," White echoes, and releases Connor's face with dismissive push, tossing his face away. He falls back against the wall, chest heaving. White turns to Fowler, wiping his hand off on a handkerchief he tugs from his pocket. He shakes his head. "Not even built to see Christmas," he chides, playing at remorse. White sighs and shrugs as if to say "What can you do?", stuffing his bloody handkerchief into his pocket. "Don't worry, Connor. I don't mean to make sure you don't see Christmas. I don't want to kill you."

Blood drips from Connor's face. Fowler feels increasingly sick to his stomach.

"I don't even want to hurt you, exactly. But I have to." He turns to Fowler, gesturing vaguely to him. "And you, I truly don't want to harm you, Captain. You're just… insurance." He smiles, as if that is in any way reassuring. "I needed to make sure the precinct isn't all that effective, you know, chain of command disrupted and all. Gives me more time," he says reasonably. Fowler silently knows that a broken chain of command will do nothing to stop Hank Anderson from getting his son back.

"Anyways." White claps his hands together. "Back to business." He glances to the pair of men standing behind him, then nods and gestures towards Connor. He's still slumped on the ground where he sunk after White discarded him. He looks so… small. Helpless. Fowler hadn't ever thought an android would be able to look so weak, let alone Connor. Fowler thought him resilient to anything that might trouble one of his human detectives– hadn't thought it possible for him to be overwhelmed by pain and fear. But now, with his wrists handcuffed to steel piping, his face bleeding, eyes watery, and all of him crumpled into the wall of this abandoned apartment complex, Connor looks small and vulnerable and scared.

The scarred man kneels by Connor. He starts to draw his legs in closer toward himself, but the scarred man grabs Connor's ankles and yanks his legs out straight. Connor yelps, eyes gone even wider, and Fowler can't help the "Hey!" that leaves him, leaning forward against his own handcuffs. Heedless of their protests, the man plants his hands down hard on Connor's knees and holds him still.

Fowler shoots his eyes up to White. He's smiling casually, meandering his way around to Connor's other side as he watches the second man, a redhead with an overabundance of freckles, settle on his knees near Connor's feet. "A tug and a twist should do it," White encourages. "You shouldn't have to remove his shoes."

Connor catches on faster than Fowler does, apparently, because at that he starts to kick his feet out, trying to get the man away from his feet, grunting and making high, panicked noises when he can't fight as well as he normally can. His legs barely manage to lift from the ground against the grip holding them down. Still, he apparently causes enough trouble that White finds it fitting to reach forward, grab a fistful of hair, and smash his head into the metal piping at his side with a very loud crack. Connor cries out so loud and harsh it's almost a scream.

"Hey!" Fowler shouts again, his own handcuffs making a racket as he jerks forward, as if he can stop the violence being inflicted on Connor. He can't, though, and Fowler's stomach turns watching Connor go mostly still, save for his chest heaving, save for the tremble vibrating through him. His head slips from the pipe to rest against the wall. There's no blood that Fowler can see, but when Connor shifts his head toward him for a moment, one of Connor's pupils is blown out and the other isn't. He's silent and only twitching when the redhead at his feet grabs onto his dress shoe and proceeds to twist and yank his foot off his leg.

Connor only flinches, his breath hitching, and turns his face into the wall. "What the fuck are you doin' that for?" Fowler snaps, anger for the android rising up in him. Connor didn't do a thing to warrant this kind of torture, this kind of degredation.

"Well, we have to start somewhere," White placates, "and getting him immobile is a smart move, don't you think?"

A smart move, Fowler thinks blankly. His anger settles into something adjacent to shock, at how cavalier White speaks of it. Connor sobs softly as his other foot is removed with a sharp twist. "There!" White claps his hands. "Excellent. Now you both understand the drill, I assume." He smiles, gesturing to Connor. Connor is breathing raggedly into the stone wall at his side. "I torture him, to torture Hank. And you," he gestures to Fowler, "get to watch."

Connor is normally lively, bright, thoughtful, fearless, even. To see him now, curled up against the wall of this dilapidated room and coated in blood is… heart wrenching. And all Fowler can do is watch.

/

White and his men leave shortly after that, and so little happened but Connor feels like so much has shifted. Connor aches, aches sharply and aches in a way that is rounded at the edges, aches shallow, aches deep. He's in pain and he didn't know what that felt like before now. And still, everything that White did to him just now only feels like an introduction. Like they dipped his toes in the water of what will come tomorrow. Connor thinks White mostly meant to scare him, and he hates that it worked.

"I had no idea," Fowler breathes. "I didn't know androids could… could feel that."

Connor's jaw is shuddering.

He doesn't speak.

When night comes, and Fowler drifts off, Connor keeps shivering, and does not close his eyes.

Morning comes eventually. Slowly, creeping, crawling.

Connor is scared. He doesn't ever remember being this scared.

He's weaker than he's ever felt, even weaker than the cold, cold Zen Garden on the day of the revolution. That was the time he'd felt closest to death, before this. But that was just cold— this is pain. Connor didn't imagine it feeling like this, didn't imagine the sharpness and the stinging and the ache that sticks around for so long after the hit lands. Imagining that humans feel this every day feels daunting. He understands why Hank curses so loud and profusely when he stubs his toe.

The thought almost, almost makes him smile.

But everything hurts a little too much, and he misses Hank so badly it almost makes him cry, too.

The spots where his feet were still ache, oozing blood slowly, and his skull feels like it's buzzing. Even ignoring the warped facial plating (which does little more than ache and cause warnings to pop up on his HUD), the smack he received yesterday fucked his head up and only made the internal scrambling done by the virus even worse. He just feels… knocked off his feet. Metaphorically, not just literally.

Fowler's still asleep. Connor couldn't make himself rest for even a minute all night. It wouldn't do any good. The virus ruined his battery and charging system. Going into rest mode won't help him unless he was at critical power levels– less than 15% charge. At that point, he'll be barely conscious as it is. Along with not being allowed to charge before reaching 15% power, he can't charge to more than 50%, meaning he's also consistently in power saving mode. He's at 34% now. It makes operating harder, slows down his processing. He's never been this low on battery, especially not for such a long amount of time. He's not used to being so weak, so clouded.

He's never been this scared.

/

Fowler wakes as White's men step into their room. They've brought a metal chair with them, and there's chain coiled around one's arm. Fowler shifts anxiously.

"Hello, boys!" White calls as he steps in, arms spreading wide once he steps through the doorway. "Get a good night's rest, I hope? I wanted to make sure you had a nice first day before we got into it." Fowler glances to Connor, and his his legs that end in ankles, and his beaten face, and his slow blinks. Right. A nice first day.

White is undeterred by the lack of response from his captives. "Got a new seat for you, Connor. It'll make today a little easier. For me, I mean. Set it down there."

"Why are you doing this?" Connor asks, his voice rougher than Fowler's ever heard it, but still the detective's voice it's always been. Level, calculating, intelligent. "You got the chance of a lifetime– an escape from decades in prison. Why not take it and run? You could live for hiding in years. Like this, you're sure to be caught and sentenced anew." Connor licks his lips. "Why not let us go and run?" he asks.

Fowler remembers that when Cyberlife sent Connor to the DPD, he was told Connor is a negotiation unit.

White laughs. "Are you afraid?"

Connor clenches his jaw and stares without speaking. White is still smiling. "Oh, this is better than I originally thought it would be." He crouches by Connor, pressing a small key into his handcuffs. "I know I could run, but what's a life looking over my shoulder? No, I know prison is inevitable." Once Connor's out of his handcuffs, White brings his knee up into Connor's face, stunning him, then kicks him down just for one of his men to pull off the ground. "I'd just rather make the most of my time free."

The man with the scar and the redhead heave Connor up into the chair. His head is lolling as they do, and for a second Fowler wonders if he's unconscious. "Kid," he calls, shifting to sit up straighter. As if it will do anything for Connor's safety or Fowler's conscience.

Connor groans. "I'm fine."

"Bind his arms and legs down. Shoulders, too. He's not very strong, but we still need precautions, no?" White unspools some chain from around the scarred man's shoulder and passes it to the redhead. "I'd do the same with a human, you know, just with rope." Fowler thinks White is speaking to him and he doesn't care.

Connor doesn't move much, eyes closed, face set in a fragile sort of expression, as his forearms are bound to the arms of the chair and his calves to the legs. "For fuck's sake," Fowler says, casting his eyes finally to White. "You don't have to do this. Hank is already going through hell knowing he's been kidnapped, isn't that enough?"

"No," White sighs, leaning against the wall beside Fowler. He crosses one ankle over the other and folds his arms over his chest, gaze pinned to Connor. They're just finishing up binding his legs, and the redhead is coming behind Connor to wrap the chain twice over his chest. "Because he's only angry right now. He's not guilty. When he finds him… I want Anderson to realize his son was hurt this bad because of him."

"Because of you," Fowler spits.

"Wouldn't have done it if he didn't put me in prison," White responds, and pushes off the wall toward Connor. "All ready, then?"

"Yes, sir," the redhead says.

White claps his hands. Connor looks up at him, face still carefully arranged into an expression that shows little fear. It's more exhaustion than fear. He seems to understand, as Fowler now does, that there's no talking their way out of this. They can only wait for rescue. "Brace yourself, son," White says, "this is going to be unpleasant."

"Don't call me that," Connor says.

White hums absently and begins unbuttoning Connor's stained button-down, starting in the middle, somewhere above where a belly-button would be, if he had one. Connor flinches, composure immediately dissipating as he throws himself into the back of the chair. The stumps where his feet were grind into the ground for leverage, and he cries out loudly, but keeps pressing himself away. Fowler stares on with horror, not understanding the violation or Connor's violent reaction. Once Connor's shirt is unbuttoned, though, Fowler thinks he understands— a small circle of light, nestled beneath his sternum.

It doesn't take him very long to guess that it's a vital biocomponent.

Connor makes a drawn-out noise again, using his hands, fisted on the arms of the chair, to try and push himself back now, his ankles dripping blue and held off the floor. "D-don't– don't! You said you weren't going to—!"

"And I'm not going to kill you," White assures, bracing one hand on Connor's shoulder, effectively pinning his weak body still, and setting his right hand over the circle of blue light. Fowler thinks he might elaborate, but he doesn't, just stays there with his hand a deliberate threat over Connor's biocomponent. Connor's breath is thin and fast, hands still fisted around the armrests, eyes wide.

Very carefully, White draws his palm back and grasps the edges of the component with his fingertips. Connor's right hand jerks against the chain that binds it. "Please, don't," he begs, and quick as anything, White twists his wrist sharply clockwise and steps back with a small cylinder in his hand.

A strained, panicked noise leaves Connor. His LED glows bright, bright red, which isn't different from most of their time here, but Fowler notices it again now as it spins rapidly. "How much time left on that shutdown clock, Connor?" White asks, examining the part in his hand.

"A–" Connor gasps, "minute and— and forty-five seconds." Fowler realizes he's pulling so hard at his own handcuffs that his wrists sting.

"Most android models have one minute and five seconds left in them without this biocomponent, did you know that, Connor?" Connor gasps and wheezes. His shaking and fighting has died down now that the component is out of him. "You have forty seconds extra… what a gift."

Connor's eyes flutter, never opening more than halfway, and he whines. His limbs jolt once in their bindings. He seems sluggish already, half-conscious, and it's barely been out for ten seconds. Fowler burns. White glances back at him. "This is his thirium pump regulator," he says. "Regulates the heartbeat. Without it, thirium can't be distributed adequately throughout the body, and shutdown of other vital components comes on quickly. With him being at half thirium capacity, I thought shutdown might come faster, but it's very interesting to see that it hasn't." Connor sobs softly.

White keeps it out until Connor is shivering and convulsing, and then he keeps it out until Connor sobs again, and then he keeps it out until he is still and silent and Fowler is anything but.

And then White puts it back, and then he does it again. And again. And again.

/

White damages his regulator. That's what Fowler gathers, at least, from what Connor stutters out when they finally leave, after nearly an hour of yanking Connor's heart out of him and shoving it back in again and again.

"I– I might not be—" Connor hiccups and squirms in the chair where they left him. They promised they'd be back soon, but the reprive is… nice. "I might not be as– operating as well, from here on out," he tells Fowler, shivering. "He damaged the port. It's not… not connecting well. Won't be as efficient."

Fowler sighs. "So he's made your sub-optimal conditions even more sub-optimal. Bastard."

Connor gives him a small smile he isn't expecting.

"What?"

"It's just… nice you care."

Fowler shifts uncomfortably. "You're one of my detectives, of course I care about your well-being," he says, eyeing over Connor's torso. His shirt is still unbuttoned and hanging open, exposing his bloody regulator. It looks really bad. "Are you gonna be okay?" he asks suspiciously. "White said that regulates your heartbeat. Is it being broken gonna…" Kill you? "cause problems?"

"Yes," Connor says. "My limited thirium won't cycle through my body as well. I'll be…" Connor seems to look for a word, then settles for one with a sigh, "tired. And because the port is damaged, if my regulator shifts the wrong way, it might not register that I have one."

Fowler glares at him, worry welling up in his chest and leaking out as anger. "And what the fuck am I supposed to do if your body stops registering your heart?"

"Unplug it and plug it back in again?" Connor suggests weakly, a wry smile on his face.

The snort that rips out of him is entirely involuntary. "Right. Well, just don't die. Hank would kill me if that happened." Not to mention that it would probably kill Hank, too. Fowler doesn't want to see either of them go. Especially not because of some dipshit with a revenge plan.

"I don't plan to die, Captain," Connor says, his voice stronger than it's been since the precinct, and Fowler allows himself to acknowledge the little bloom of hope in his chest.

He smiles grimly. "And I don't plan to let you die."

He knows, though, that neither of them really have a say in it.

/

They sit for hours. Fowler hopes it doesn't mean anything bad for Connor, but knows that it does.

/

"Have I built the suspense enough?" White asks as he opens the door to their room. Fowler isn't in the joking mood. Not that he has been for even a moment for the day and a half he's been chained here, but about an hour ago Connor's regulator disconnected. It didn't reconnect for nearly a minute. Connor had started to fade in front of his eyes, no more than five feet from him, and there wasn't anything Fowler could have done more than just watch him die.

Not that that's any different than any other moment of their time here, either.

"Excellent," White says to their silence. "Let's get down to it. Jay, get his right arm free. And take his shirt." The redhead comes over and obediently unlocks and unwinds Connor's right hand. Connor flexes his hand into a fist once it's free, and White smiles at seeing the action. "Oh, we both know you're too weak to do anything useful with just one arm."

Connor looks up at him with lidded eyes, then tilts his head back to glare at him properly as Jay unbuttons his shirt and yanks it off Connor brusquely. He uses a knife to cut the fabric where chains trap it. "Only because you put a virus in me. You know you're not strong enough to fight me. You have to take me down to less than half my best to even chain me down," he growls out. Connor doesn't react much to his shirt being taken. Fowler watches with unease.

White smiles and comes over to stroke Connor's hair, which he flinches back from. White settles his hand heavily on Connor's right wrist. "Still, seeing as this arm isn't of any use to you, even untied…" White raises his eyebrows. "Why don't I just take it?"

Connor's jaw trembles before he clenches it shut. White raises an eyebrow. "You don't need it. I think I ought to take it." He turns dismissively from Connor to the scarred man. "What do you think, Ramirez? Do we just give his arm a tug like with his feet, or won't that work?"

The man with the scar, Ramirez, shrugs. Fowler stares at him. "Why not. Try a tug before we break out any equipment."

A high, static-filled noise leaves Connor's chest. He presses back into the chair again. Fowler can't help but say, "It's okay, Connor," senseless and untrue but he has to try and calm him down all the same. It's almost hurts to watch Connor so frightened and in so much pain. Connor whines again, and White comes behind him. Apparently he's finally going to get his hands dirty. For some reason, Fowler doesn't suspect this will force him to face the reality of what he's doing any more than watching his henchmen do it has. Brown eyes wide with fear set on Fowler's and one of White's hands settles firmly above Connor's elbow.

He pulls Connor's arm back, and back, and when he meets resistance he pulls harder and Connor screams. It turns almost immediately into sobs. Fowler's never seen him cry like this before. Not that– not that it doesn't make sense, but he's jarred seeing him burst into sobs. "Stop!" Connor screams, chest fighting against the chain keeping him in place, his neck dropping forward. "Stop, st—" he begs, getting louder, only to be cut off by a loud creak and a grinding noise that makes Fowler's stomach turn. Connor gasps and convulses as his shoulder makes harsh, horrifying noises, his entire body held tense. A moment later, White yanks, harsh and quick, and Connor's shoulder separates from his torso without a sound. Connor chokes on a sob.

"There. Not so difficult after all," White says, Connor's arm held casually in his grasp now that it's not attached to him. There's a little blood at the end of it, and some dripping from Connor's shoulder socket, but not as much as Fowler expected, given all the… sounds. He's not sure how that feels, to watch Connor leak less than half pint of blood, after losing his arm. It doesn't feel right, but he also can't make himself feel any kind of relief about it.

Connor convulses once, looking like he might be sick. He draws a slow and shaky breath. His eyes are fixed on a patch of dirty floor. "How's that feel, Connor? Anything like pain?" White asks, curious and mocking all at once.

"Fuck you," Connor wheezes. His eyes are lidded. It might be that his regulator disconnected in the struggle. Fowler's heart jerks with worry.

"I genuinely want to know, but if you want to be unhelpful, that's fine," White says lightly, passing off Connor's arm to the redhead, Jay, who'd been hovering nearby. "It certainly seemed like it hurt. That's enough for me." He smiles and grasps Connor's face, fingers slotting into the buckled of his facial plating that he created yesterday. Yesterday. They unbind Connor methodically from the chair, and even once he's free he doesn't fight them, or even move. Ramirez hauls Connor back against the wall and handcuffs his one hand to the pipe. Connor slumps against the wall, still staring into space with tears on his cheeks.

"You know why your useless answer is enough for me, Connor?" White asks, staring at Connor's small, crumpled form. "Because I'll be back tomorrow. And tomorrow, there'll be no doubt you're in pain."

He leaves. Ramirez and Jay trail after, with Connor's stiff, white arm in tow.

"Jesus Christ, kid," Fowler breathes, looking from the door to Connor, still tied up in that metal chair, only now he's missing an arm. "Are you okay?"

It's a dumb question. Connor's shaking hard enough that Fowler can hear the chains rattling against the pipe he's chained to. He can see the tears dripping down his warped cheeks, hear his shuddering breath, see his trembling jaw and eyes rounded with shock.

"Yes," Connor says, though, breath hitching so badly even the one word is mangled. "I'm okay."

"Your regulator?"

"Disconnected for a second there," he murmurs, then shakes his head. "It's fine now. I'm okay," he repeats. The lie is a weak and shaky thing.

Fowler's heart twists, turns, breaks. "We're gonna get out of here soon, Connor, I promise," he says. "You won't have to put up with much more of this. Hank is coming."

"Okay," Connor mumbles, but he still doesn't look up from the same spot on the floor that he's been staring at.

/

Today when they come to their room, instead of settling in to make Connor's life hell, they unbind him and begin to drag him out of the room. He's light enough that just Ramirez can hook his arms under Connor's armpits, even though he's grappling with the small hold of Connor's right shoulder missing an arm, and start to drag him from the room. Connor is so beyond exhausted that he can't even muster the strength to fight back, but his eyes go wide, and he looks to Fowler with desperation. White had said that today, Connor would…. Today would be bad.

Fowler won't be able to do anything to help him even if he stays here, but the idea of Connor alone with these men, these torturers, is too much to bear. He looks so scared— those soft brown eyes gone wide and sharp with terror. "Hey– hey, wait! Where are you taking him?"

"Trust me," Jay grunts, "you'll be glad not to see this."

Connor's sharp eyes round out with— with an emotion Fowler doesn't recognize. Tears blur the brightness of his eyes, and a long, glitchy noise comes from high in the kid's throat. "Captain–" he chokes, shoulders shifting, maybe evidence of his weakened body trying to fight his hold, "please, I don't want to— I'm scared, I don't want it, I don't want it!"

"It's going to be okay, Connor!" Fowler tells him, set and determined. "You're going to be okay, I swear to you, you're going to get out of this okay!"

The door slams shut.

Fowler hates lying. It tastes like ash in his mouth.

/

He's hiccuping as they make their way back into his and Fowler's little room. Fowler can hear him from the hallway. He shifts restlessly, anxious to see Connor. Left alone, he's only been able to imagine the horrible things they've done to him, the things he should be glad not to have seen. "Connor," he calls, not sure why.

They drag him through the doorway, his back to Fowler. Fowler's eyes skim him in a rush, cataloging him for new injuries. He can't see any initially, but his heart doesn't lift at all for it. Connor is still sobbing, and when he turns slightly, Fowler can see blood coating his chest. "Connor," he says again, then Ramirez sets him against the wall, and when he moves to handcuff him to the pipe, Fowler sees his face.

"Oh, God, kid."

Connor doesn't have his eyes. They've gouged out his eyes. Scrape marks occasionally mar the edges of the newly-carved holes in his head. Other than those few scrape marks, though, it looks like a fairly… clean removal. The holes look about the shape of the eye components Fowler has seen, all boxed up for their technicians at the precinct. The rest of him is in tact, even the rest of his face, albeit dripping blood from his chin to stain his already bare, bloody chest.

Connor sobs. It seems like most of the blood flow has stopped, just a sluggish trail finding its way down to his jaw, but the blue blood eerily mimics the tears that Connor can no longer cry.

"Jesus Christ," Fowler breathes, then darts his eyes up to White in disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Oh, you can unhandcuff Connor," White says, smirking at Fowler as he speaks to Ramirez. "I doubt he'll get anywhere." Fowler growls lowly. He and Connor already weren't getting anywhere— the lock on the door is on the outside, and Connor hasn't had freaky android strength since the beginning of their stay. There's no need for White to rub in the reminder that he's been torturing Connor, stealing parts of him, causing him so much pain. White tilts his head, as if reading Fowler's thought's. "You can unhandcuff him, too. It's not like they can do anything."

Fowler wishes being freed from his manacles gave him hope, but White is right. There's nothing he or Connor can do to escape, even unhandcuffed. The room is windowless, with nothing inside it but a metal chair and a metal door locked from the outside. Having his hands free just gives him an inch more freedom within these same four walls.

He and Connor are unhandcuffed, and for the moments after being unbound, Connor just… sits. He sits on the middle of the room, on his knees, sitting back against his ankles. When they unhandcuff Fowler, he sits, and when they leave, he's still unmoving, save for the juddering motions of his chest as he works to get his breathing back to normal.

"Kid," Fowler says after a few seconds watching him. "Kid, for God's sake, c'mere."

Connor hiccups as he tries to speak. He takes a deep breath, then tries again. "Alright."

Connor crawls the short distance over to him on his hands and knees, coming to a stop right in front of him, just a foot from him. "No, come here," Fowler says, and sets a gentle but firm hand on Connor's arm to pull him in. A soft, surprised noise startles out of Connor's chest, but he lets Fowler tug him into his arms, cheek falling to Fowler's shoulder and his shoulder missing an arm pressing into the center of his chest. His eyeless face stare up to the ceiling, chin tipped up. Fowler wraps his arms around him, a swell of protectiveness rising in him. "I've got you. It's– it's killin' me to see this happen to you, Connor. Let me at least… fuck, I don't know, make you feel just a little better."

A few seconds pass. "This is helping," Connor says, his voice small. Fowler holds him closer, both hands holding his good arm to keep him held against his chest.

They sit in silence, pressed together, for some time.

After a while, Connor starts to cry again, shaking and drawing breath desperately. He gasps into Fowler's chest, blind but still tucking his face away into the solid warmth of him. "I can't do this for… for much longer," he whimpers, Fowler's shirt catching in his mouth. Fowler squeezes him tighter. He's aching. Watching the poor kid go through this is so horrible, and imagining the pain, physical and emotional, he must be going through is… unfathomable. Connor's been missing his feet for nearly their entire time here. That loss of autonomy is tough enough. Then the arm he lost yesterday, his amputated shoulder pressing bloody and small into Fowler's chest. And today his eyes.

He's sobbing without the tears in Fowlers arms.

Fowler shushes him absently and draws him closer, hands pressing to Connor's bicep. "It's okay," he promises. "You know Hank is coming as fast as he can. He'll be here soon." Fowler smiles and looks up to avoid seeing the blood dripping from where Connor's eyes used to be. "He's the most irritating cop on my force, because he'll do what he wants to do, what he believes is right. And I know he's coming to save you with the same kind of determination."

Connor is breathing a little more calmly. "Guess I can see how that would make him a pain to command," he breathes, voice thin. "Makes… makes him a good dad, though."

Fowler squeezes him tighter and clenches his jaw. He'll protect Connor until his dad can see him again. "You're damn right, kid."

"Y'know…" Connor breathes, "it's kinda funny. No one… not even me or Hank… ever really called me his son. Not explicitly." He smiles without humor, turns his face into Fowler's shoulder. He's cooler than a human would be. Fowler wonders if that's normal, or a side effect of his thirium shortage. "And now I'm hearing it all the time. It's sorta nice."

Fowler huffs. Nice. At least there's something making this even a little easier for Connor. He doesn't know what to say to that, though, so he just squeezes Connor's good shoulder. "He'll be here soon," he repeats. "And in the meantime, I've got you, kid."

/

In the late hours of that night, or more likely the early hours of the next morning, there are noises coming from down the hall. Connor hears them first, when Fowler can hear nothing, and nudges him awake. Soon enough, Fowler can hear them too, though. He couldn't tell Connor what they are, though, and Connor can't tell him either.

Fowler and Connor sit in tense silence as the noises get louder. There's loud crashes that could be just about anything— doors slamming in, something new to strap Connor into being tested or moved. Whatever new horror it is, this time, Fowler will protect him— he'll put up a damn good fight for him. He doesn't dare to hope—doesn't think to hope—it's anything good, as he cradles Connor's weak and trembling body in his arms.

That is, he doesn't dare to hope, until Connor perks up in his arms and tilts his ear toward the door. "That's—" his breath is coming fast, eager, hopeful. "That's– that's Hank, I can, I can hear Hank!" He squirms in Fowler's arms like he wants to scramble to his feet and tear open the door. Fowler's heart is racing.

"Alright, alright, sit still, kiddo, I'm gonna make sure it's him," he says, setting Connor carefully against the wall.

"It's him," Connor insists, voice rough and pleading. Desperate for Fowler to believe him.

"Alright," Fowler says again after a moment's hesitation. He trusts Connor. "Then I'm gonna get his attention. Stay here for a second."

"I can't go anywhere."

"Okay, smartass, I get it." Fowler stands and comes to the door, pressing his ear to it for a second. "They're out there?" He can't hear anything.

Connor shifts, angling his head so his ear is toward the door again. He nods. "Getting a little louder, I think, I don't know. It's– it's definitely Hank."

Fowler hesitates, wary, but steels himself and says, "Okay. Okay, let's get out of here." He takes a deep breath, then slams his fist against the door, still locked securely from the outside. "Hey!" he hollers, banging his fist a few times in rapid succession. "In here! We're in here!"

"They heard you," Connor exclaims, sitting up higher. "Oh, they heard you." He sounds a little choked up, emotional. Relieved.

"Jeffery!" Hank's voice bellows from close by, and Fowler has enough sense to take a few steps back from the door before it bursts in. Hank appears in the doorway, haggard and eyes shot wide with desperation. His eyes land on Fowler, softening only mildly with relief, then shoot over to Connor, and his face goes damn near slack with the sight of Connor, propped against the wall, trembling and sightless and finally, _finally_ , not filled with terror. "Connor, Connor, thank fucking—"

"Hank," Connor sobs, and Fowler watches the poor kid finally shatter after holding himself together for three days of torture. "H-Hank—"

Hank tackles Connor in the bear hug to end all bear hugs, knees thudding to the floor. "Connor," he says back, cradling his skull in one hand and wrapping his other arm around Connor's waist, mindless of the blood, until Connor is pressed entirely into him. "Oh, God, kid. I'm so sorry. I'm so—"

"N-not your fault," Connor hiccups, his hands shaking badly until he clenches his fists in Hank's jacket.

Fowler waves a dismissive hand at the rest of the rescue squad, for just a moment, and crouches beside Connor instead. Gingerly, he sets a hand on his shoulder. Connor tenses, then eases under his hand, and Hank raises his watery eyes. "He's very low on blue blood," he says, voice low, as he strokes Connor's neck absently with his thumb. "We need to get the virus in his system out, and replenish his thirium. That's most important."

"Yes," Hank says, shaking with adrenaline, frazzled from relief. "Yes, right." He pulls back from the tight embrace he's locked Connor in, brushing hair out of his face and cradling his cheek. "There's an ambulance outside, okay?" he asks, swiping his thumb through the tacky speckles of thirium that remain under his eyes. "Is it okay if I carry you, buddy?"

Connor nods, breath hitching, and Fowler squeezes his shoulder once more before stepping away. "Let's get out of here," he says, and throws a glance to the rescue team. "You have White and at least two other men?"

Hank speaks for them. "Yeah. Ben and a few others grabbed them, they're taking care of them."

"Good," Flower gruffs. Hank gathers Connor in his arms, a closer version of how Fowler had held him, with Connor's face tucked securely into his neck, both arms wrapped firmly around Connor's small and beaten body. His hands press in tight, like he just needs to feel Connor alive and real against him.

"Let's get you to the hospital," Hank say to Connor, punctuated with a kiss to his hair, and then gives Fowler a pointed look. "You too, Jeff." Hank carries Connor out of that godforsaken room, finally, and Fowler follows quickly, a heavy weight lifting from his chest as he crosses the threshold.

/

Connor has already been whisked away to the Android Repair Wing by the time Fowler gets to the hospital— the ARW, Hank calls it, and the way it rolls of his tongue makes Fowler realize just how often Connor gets hurt. He's a reckless kid, throws himself after perpetrators without much regard to his own personal safety. Fowler knew that, objectively, but thinking about it now causes a little ache behind his sternum.

All of Connor's injuries still don't add up to immediate danger, but his damage was doing a number on his mental health, so he's marked as a high priority patient. Both Hank and the hospital staff demand that Fowler gets looked at, but they find only a moderate concussion, just as he'd insisted, alongside a little dehydration and low blood sugar. He gets a snack and a concussion recovery pamphlet, and Connor is in surgery. Repairs. Whatever. It's not fair.

He sighs and rubs his face in the waiting room, with Hank at his side.

Emergency repairs don't take all that long, and soon the two of them are permitted into Connor's recovery room. The virus was removed first and foremost. Now, his thirium has been replenished and his components substituted. Because he's a specialized prototype, the repair center is waiting on most of his highly specialized components. They've fixed the port for his thirium pump regulator and gave him a temporary one as well, one that's compatible but not up to snuff with his usual regulator. They've given him feet from a AC700 or 900 or whatever the hell model as a replacement in the mean time, because being denied mobility was really hard on Connor. He's armless for the meantime, while he's stuck at the hospital for a few more days waiting on Cyberlife to send them the appropriate parts.

His eyes are from some new model, but also not as good as his usual ones. But Connor needed those even more than his mobility. It did a number on him, not having his sight.

He's unconscious when they come in, though. They're briefed quietly by an android nurse, then left with Connor so long as they promise to be quiet. RK800s are sensitive to noise, she says, even in stasis, and Connor desperately needs to rest.

"God, it's good to see his face," Hank says, voice low and gravelled, ghosting his fingers over Connor's repaired cheeks. "Feels like you two were gone for weeks, not for three days."

Fowler sighs his agreement. "We knew you were coming," he says, though.

Hank smiles tightly. "Good. I was looking for you guys. So fuckin'—" He cuts off. "Was scared I wasn't gonna make it in time. For either of you."

"They didn't want to kill us," Fowler says faintly.

Hank looks at him sidelong. "You and the kid are gonna need some time. Recovery from this kind of thing isn't easy." His eyes linger a moment, examining him. "You sure you're okay?"

Fowler sighs again and sets a gentle hand on Connor's knee. For a moment, he's scared Connor will wake, but he stays unmoving. "Yeah. They didn't touch me after the first hit." He shifts in his plastic chair, still sore from captivity.

"I'm not just talkin' about physical stuff."

"I know, I know. We'll take time to recover," he says. "But we'll be okay."

"Thank you," Hank says, "for being there for him."

After a lingering moment examining Connor's slack face, Fowler turns a small smile toward Hank. "Yeah," he says, then squeezes Connor's leg gently and pulls away. "I'll always be there for him. I swear." Fowler knows they'll take time to heal, knows he'll take time to heal, just from watching everything that White did to Connor. But they'll get better. They'll heal with time, even if it takes a long time.

He'll always be there for Connor.

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed, please leave kudos and/or a comment!! thank you for reading!! 
> 
> find me on tumblr @stacispratt !!


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